by Robert Kraft

I awoke at noon on a Tuesday to an antiseptic silence. I had floated up from murky dreams to half-sleep to spongy wakefulness in a smooth, uninterrupted arc. This was unusual, and I couldn't understand why. I stared at the ceiling. My cat, whom, I swear, can hear my eyelids pop open from across the room, jumped onto the bed and nuzzled my listless hand. Silence. Peace. Something was wrong.

No kids. School had started. Summer vacation was over and the pool outside my apartment was empty. No screaming, splashing, shouting children. All summer long, they had been out there by nine o'clock or so, peppering my sleep with their kid-noises.

When I first moved into this apartment, on a brisk fall morning, the pool right outside my door seemed a luxurious amenity. Then came summer and her shrill hordes of children to shatter the somber, monastic dignity of my quiet life in my quiet apartment.

The first hot, clear day in late May brought an end to my peace. I work out of my apartment, and the noise destroyed my concentration, and any hope of continuing that day's work. A nap was also out of the question.

But what could I do? Kids are noisy. They are charged with a quicksilver energy that makes them wriggle and shriek at the fantastic newness of summers and swimming pools, of juice-boxes and gigantic water-pistols. In my eighth or ninth summer, the bright blue expanse of shimmering water in a real in-the-ground swimming pool induced in me a trembling ecstasy, and an anxiety that there just wouldn't be time enough in a thousand summer days to complete all the necessary splashing and swimming, flipping and diving, and I sometimes would be screaming before I could get into my swimsuit.

Confirmed bachelor that I am, I still refuse to be one of those sour grownups who are constantly shush-ing joyful children, or trying to stem the flow of mighty rivers with handfuls of cat-litter. I decided to go swimming.

That first day, five or six unsupervised children were splashing and giggling by the little waterfall in the shallow end. I dove in at the deep end and floated on my back, staring up at the hazy sky. The children continue their play, but in the hushed tones that they had learned to adopt in the presence of strange adults.

As I floated, I thought about a conversation with some friends from the night before. A long, tedious discussion of sexual politics in which the participants seemed to be motivated more by their own pain and disappointment then by any firmly held beliefs. Lots of quoting, pontificating, generalizing, and bitterness.

I looked up to find myself ringed by cantaloupe-sized heads plastered with dark shiny hair and bright, curious eyes. One of the little heads spoke.

"You have a black cat."

"Yes," I answered, recognizing the daughter of the family that lived next door to me.

"What's her name?"

"Ellington."

She looked disappointed. I wondered why. I never found out.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Sometimes," I said.

"I'm Sara," she stated.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Robert."

The ice was broken. Names were exchanged. Water fights commenced. I found myself instantly embroiled in the ancient and long-revered contest known as "Kill The Monster." I was The Monster, and they had to kill me. They nearly did.

This game evolved into the age-old ritual of "Chucking," in which the largest member of the group must hurl the smaller ones as high into the air as possible. All of the smaller ones. Even little Carlos, who is not so little for a nine-year-old. He likes to eat, his brother tells me.

The girls were not as interested in "Chucking" as the boys. The girls were ferociously commited, however, to playing "Kill the Monster."

I taught them the arcane water-tricks of my own childhood summers; how to make water-spouts with both hands at the same time; how to swim like a dolphin: the Sweeping - Two - Arm - Multi - Destroying - Splash Technique. I later had cause to regret showing them that one.

These activities were supplemented by occasional question-and-answer sessions.

"What's your job?"

"I'm a freelance writer."

"What's freelance writer?"

"I don't know."

The kids would sometimes volunteer bits of information about their own lives.

"My sister's boyfriend is in jail."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Occasionally, a tired-looking woman would peer over the fence, glare suspiciously at me, and then disappear.

I could not keep up with the children for long. I dragged myself out of the pool after a scant hour, leaving them to shriek and yodel long into the evening, until their mothers called them to dinner.

I found that napping came rather easily that day, in spite of the noise.

This has continued through the summer. I have gotten to know most of the kids. There is Saul, the alpha-male of the group, blustering and cocky, brimming with the indestructable confidence of his 11 years. I think he has a crush on Veronica, a fawn-like girl with giant eyes and a bright, fleeting grin. Saul has no greater pleasure in life than splashing her until she explodes into a towering rage.

Eduardo is very small and very concerned with doing the right thing. He is perpetually on the horns of some moral dilemma, like whether to let a water-logged yellowjacket drown or scoop it out of the water.

Kevin wears very thick glasses and is very wary of water fights. He gets water in his eyes, and this annoys him to the point of violence.

William's father got drunk and passed out in the pool on Father's Day. William found him floating there, pale and still, and his screams brought everyone in the complex running to the pool. He kept screaming, even after we had revived his father and the ambulance came. He doesn't like to swim near the deep end. He's getting better, though, I think.

Carlos is not concerned in the least about his weight problem.

The noise stopped bothering me after a while. I found that I could sleep through it, most mornings. If it did awaken me, I wouldn't get angry, so it was easy to go back to sleep most of the time. I sleep late too much, anyway.

Now that school has started, I think I miss the sounds of children at the pool. The silence in the morning is kind of spooky. But Texas summers are long, and they come back in the afternoon, bursting with out-of-school ferocity, and head straight for the pool.

I was on the phone with a client yesterday. He was on his cell phone, stuck in traffic. He droned on about invoices and contracts. I droned back. I was interrupted by a long, impossibly shrill scream of delighted outrage. Saul was expressing his affection for Veronica. The client heard it over the phone.

"What the hell was that?"

"School's out for the day," I answered.

I got rid of him as quick as I could, and changed into my swimsuit. I hope the kids aren't getting tired of me.